


There's Still Time

by Venturous



Category: Breaking Bad
Genre: Alternate Ending, Drug Use, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Fix-It of Sorts, M/M, Mentions of Cancer, Original Character Death(s), Past Rape/Non-con, Resolution, Verbal Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-13
Updated: 2015-08-14
Packaged: 2018-04-14 13:46:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 11
Words: 8,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4566828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Venturous/pseuds/Venturous
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There’s still time for healing.</p><p>An alternative ending to series; most chapter titles come from Dylan Thomas</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. What We Do

**Author's Note:**

> This story is now complete. It was previously posted as a series by the same name. The first 6 chapters are largely the same, having been improved by some editing. I apologize for the long delay in posting the end of this tale.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> previously _Some Things Cannot Die_
> 
> Walt saves Jesse. Jesse saves Walt. It's WHAT THEY DO.

When Walt turned toward the door, puzzled by the sound of chains, he couldn’t quite process what he saw. The details were there, but never in all his agonizing soul-searching in that frozen cabin had he ever anticipated this. 

A man in filthy rags shuffled into the room, guided by Todd. His head hung low and lank hair hid the face. Frankly, until the man looked up and focused those blue eyes on him Walt had no idea whoidea who this wretch was.

Heisenberg may have been able to contain the shock, but Walter White felt his blood pressure drop and his gorge rise. Those eyes.

For weeks, Walt had grieved for Jesse, wracked his fevered mind trying to rewrite the ending to their partnership. It was the one death that haunted him - he was shocked to discover that he longed to see Jesse as much as- or more than - his- his own son.

But when he learned that the Blue was still on the streets, every bit as good as his own product, his rage was reignited. Clearly Jesse had bargained for his life by offering Jack HIS process. He planned to destroy Pinkman along with Jack’s gang of thieves in his final fury.

But now, staring at Jesse’s scarred face, the fear and hatred in his eyes, the horror his former partner must have endured hit Walter in the gut.

Without hesitation he dove upon Jesse, grappling him to the floor. He feigned some pummeling blows, while hoping not to cause more wounds on Jesse’s battered face, and he pressed the button. He listened as the men laughed and jeered at them, and feared that the remote had failed. But soon laughter cut short by sounds of splattering death.The M60 rounds swept the room tearing through everything in their path.

Walt bore down, flattening them low, trying to cover Jesse completely. He felt Pinkman surrender as he stopped struggling to rise. But he was still breathing. Walt could feel both of their hearts pounding, felt Jesse’s breath on his neck. Then he felt a sharp pinch in his side.

After what seemed like forever, the room fell silent but for a few moans and dripping sounds. Walter crawled away groping for his glasses, then stood unsteadily, the room blurry and spinning. He felt something odd, and, opening his jacket he found a spreading stain on his shirt. And so pressed his hand to his side. As the warm blood spread between his fingers he felt something new arising: Peace.

 _Well,_ he thought, _this is_ _it._ _It._

In time, he didn’t know how long, he became aware of the room again. Apparently Todd hadn’t been quite dead, and Pinkman had managed to throttle him, retrieve the keys and remove his manacles. He had a gun, and it was trained on Walter.

Walter looked at him, all hurt and anger slipping away.

“Do it. You know you want to.”

Jesse shook his head.

“I’m not taking your orders anymore, old man.” His voice a harsh croak.

He put down the gun and slid it toward Walt.

“If that’s what you want, do it yourself.”

They looked at each other. Walter looked into vivid blue eyes and was so relieved to see fierceness there, a will to live.

“Get out of here, Jesse. Just go, you can make it, you can have a new beginning.” His voice was already weakening.

And Walt despaired as he saw the young mans shoulders slump, his gaze fall. This was Jesse leaking hope like a punctured balloon.He’d seen this before, so many times. He was the one who had berated Pinkman for incompetence, lashing his student with barbed words, precisely calculated to run him down.

“NO!” He summoned a shout. “Pinkman, you will not give up. Get in a car and GO. You can save yourself, please.” Please, he silently implored, I cannot die until you are free.

Running out of strength Walt staggered a bit and moved his hand for balance. The palm was red with his own blood.

“Mr. White! You’ve been hit.”

Suddenly Jesse was at his side, first fluttering with uncertainty then wrapping an arm around Walt’s sagging frame, walking him toward the door.

“If I’m going, you’re coming with me.”

“No, son, they’re after me, I’ll slow you down, please…”

But his voice was failing, fallen to a whisper. Jesse didn’t seem to have heard him. He dragged Walt to a rusted ElCamino and eased him inside.

When they crashed through the gate, Walter heard Jesse let out a whooping cry. With tears running streaming his face he was laughing and screaming all at once. Walter wanted to respond but he felt so very, very far away.


	2. White Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What happens next is a bit of a shock.

A blinding light was boring its way through his eyelids, and Walt thought:

_OK._ _Now I’m really dead._

He blinked and his vision swam into focus. White. White was all he could see: white floors, walls, pillars. He struggled to sit up, finding himself on a white stone bench.

_What the hell? Wait, is_ _ this _ _hell?_

_Wait a minute; i_ _f I’m thinking, I can’t really be dead._

He pushed himself to a seated position, wobbling, and felt his face for his glasses. There. Then in a moment of panic he looked at his bloody shirt. Clean. He felt his side, fine. Healed.

Walter closed his eyes, waiting for the dream to resolve, for the real end to come. He was a scientist. He didn’t believe in the afterlife, especially not being greeted by angels in the light at the end of the tunnel. The last thing he remembered was being mortally wounded.

“No doubt this is a peculiar experience.”

A resonant voice, somewhat laconic, startled him out of his meditation. He risked opening his eyes.

And saw a very old, very odd man sitting next to him. He wore an ornate purple cap and half moon glasses perched on the end of his long nose.

Walt’s mouth was hanging open.

“It’s alright, my boy, you can breathe.”

The man’s eyes twinkled as he smiled gently. Walt took in the flowing white hair and long, braided beard.

“What the… who are you? Gandalf?”

The old man chuckled.

“Excellent hypothesis, Walter. He may very well be kin, but my name is Albus. Professor Albus Dumbledore. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

The old man extended his elegant hand, bejeweled with rings, in formal greeting.

“Come now, Walter, I know you have good manners, when you want to.”

The improbable man actually winked. Walter sighed, accepted the offer, and felt what certainly seemed solid flesh as he gripped the old man’s hand.

“I can tell you have questions. Let us walk.”

Standing, the white-haired man was remarkable tall, but Walt was learning not to be surprised by every detail. Long robes of violet and silver trailed on the marble floor behind ‘Albus.’

 _Albus. Doesn’t that translate as_ _white_ _?_ Walter pondered.

“Yes, my boy, excellent, you’re recalling your schooling, that is most excellent. But what we must discuss, Walter, what you will decide.”

Tired of riddles, Walt shook his head, as if that would make the dream go away. He ran his hand through his hair. He still had hair, well. He sighed.

“What are you talking about? Decide what?”

“Why, which way will you choose?” Albus looked down at him fondly.

As if to encourage a befuddled student. Professor, he said Professor Dumbledore.

This time it was Albus who sighed. _This_ _one might take some work_.

“Walter, in a short while a train will arrive, and you must decide whether you will board the train, or stay here. Do you understand?”

Walt felt his mind sharpening, just a bit.

“Well, depends, Professor, doesn’t it? Where is the train going?”

_May as well play along._

“That’s up to you, son.“ Dumbledore’s voice was warm, and kindly.

Walt startled at that. His father had been gone for years, and no one had treated him with paternal warmth is quite some time. He was used to being in charge. He was the father, the boss, the mastermind.

He failed to notice the sad quirk of Dumbledore’s mouth.

He was startled by the change in the light, and a rising sound. A train really was approaching. Walt’s heart sped up.

“That way, life. With all it’s pleasures, and terrors. And consequences.”

“And if I stay here, is there a different train?”

“That’s unclear, son. There could be, but it’s unusual. Or you might just walk a while, in the light. Until it goes out.

“What is clear though, is that if you want to board that train, the price is love. And, you need to leave that here.”

The tall wizard was looking at him seriously now. No twinkle, no amusement.

Walter began to ask ‘what?’ when he realized he was wearing a hat. His hat. Heisenberg’s hat.

“This?” he starred at it in his hands. He had a clear memory of the moment he first put it on, how it gave him courage.

/It was never the hat, Walter./ Dumbledore’s voice just formed in his mind, whispering to him, so softly.

The train drew closer, roaring now; it’s light brighter than all the whiteness around them. It bleached the color out of the wizard’s robes and face. The hat remained impenetrably black.

Suddenly repulsed, Walt threw it, like a discus, and it sailed under the front of the train. A tremendous shower of sparks went up, the brakes grabbed and the squeal of steel on steel seemed to vibrate the entire station. He looked in alarm at the Professor, who stood, looking out as if over a great distance, his hair floating, too slowly, in the moving air.

Then, silence. Train still, the door slid open with a tiny whoosh, and the luminous interior beckoned.

Walt turned to say goodbye, and the wizard was no longer there.


	3. Chicken Scratch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was something they had stopped expecting: a chance to make it right.

When he opened his eyes there was a blinding light, and Walt thought:

_/_ _I’m still there._ _/_

His vision swam into focus to find odd details like a rough stucco wall, huge vase of sunflowers on a table, and a view out over the bright desert landscape. Sage and saguaro dotted the hills, silvery blue mountains behind.

Struggling to sit up, his arms were weak and trembling. The dry air filling his lungs, a twisting pain in his side, and warm tile when his feet touched the floor.

_/_ _I’m alive._ _/_

Looking around he found his glasses folded neatly on the side table, next to a glass of water. Walt pulled at the loose cotton shirt he was wearing and looked at his flank, where his recent wound looked surprisingly healed. He was seized with a sudden thirst. Carefully he adjusted his glasses, and blinked at the world, focusing, and drank down the cool water.

It was mid-day and warm. He discovered that his bed was on a tiled veranda sheltered by a timbered roof, attached a one-story stucco house surrounded by an arid yard. The porch defined by a row of stones and potted herbs. A few chickens pecked about the gravel. A twisted wire fence drew the edge of the yard, with nothing but scrub desert beyond.

Walt saw a puff of dust appear and he followed it, apparently a vehicle drawing nearer. His heart sped up and his hands clenched the edge of the bed. He talked himself down: clearly whoever had brought him here had treated him with care.

A woman stood in the doorway, eyes widening.

“Señor! Por favor, usted descansar![1]” She was frozen, looked almost terrified of him. Walt was surprised how much that pained him, that she was afraid. Surely he wasn’t much of a threat now?

“Señor Pinkman estará aquí enun momento[2].”

And she disappeared into the house.

Now Walt felt a wave of panic, bitter and sinking. He was at Jesse’s mercy, and he had a great deal to atone for. Why had Pinkman kept him alive? To repay him for the torment he had endured? To extract revenge for the hit Walt had ordered? Well, there was no escape now. He heard the car door slam, and footsteps crunching on the gravel.

At that moment Walter White felt old and very frail. He thought about pretending he was still asleep but there was no time. Pinkman’s shadow fell across the tiles as he stepped into view, came closer, blocking the brightness of the day. Walt wasn’t breathing.

“You’re awake. How are you feeling?”

“Fine, well, weak, really, but amazingly okay. What… how?”

Walt fumbled, his voice a croak.

“Why…” he coughed. “Where are we?”

“Señora Rosa, por favor traertráiganos (or nos traiga) el agua![3]” Jesse called.

[Although I guess it would make sense if he didn’t speak great Spanish...]

“Ascension, a little nowhere town not far from the border. So, yeah, when Gus and Mike and I… after don Eladio’s we drove to this place, an old factory fixed up inside like a hospital, you know. We stayed there while Gus got stronger. This guy, Marco, was the doctor.“

Jesse was looking at the floor. He pushed the hair out of his face and looked at Walt.

“I was able to call him after, uh, when I needed to get you help. I figured it was best to get out of the country anyway, so, here we are.”

Walter felt the intensity of his gaze and looked away.

“I don’t remember much of anything, other than strange dreams.”

“Yeah, well you were pretty sick, Mr. White. Delirious, like with a fever and stuff. Marcos he kept you pretty sedated.”

Walter felt a bit faint. The woman appeared with a pitcher of water and another glass. He looked at her, her kind face.

“Gracias, Señora.”

“Rosa, por favor.” She smiled, nodding as she stepped away.

Walt couldn't meet Pinkman’s Jesse’s eyes. He stared at his feet – Jesse wore worn pointed boots and jeans that were too big on him. His hair was still long, sandy and fine, covering half his face. His scarred face. Walter wanted to search that face, to see the scars, to see that they had healed. But he was afraid to see the eyes, and the scars there.

Afraid of what he would find.

They sat quietly for a time. In this isolated place, there was little to distract them. Chickens scratching. The shadow of a passing crow. The lack of conversation was inescapable.

“How are you feeling? Can you stand?”

Walt thought he could try, and he pushed up, wobbling. Jesse caught his arm and steadied him, and Walt looked up quickly into his face, catching the blue eyes, bright with concern.

“Easy, Mr. White. “

Walter straightened up and stood, willing himself steady.

“Jesse, please. No more ‘Mr. White.’“

“’Mr. Lambert?’” Jesse smiled.

“Walt.” He whispered, “Call me Walter.”

He looked into the Jesse’s eyes. The youthful look was gone, now, but for a moment he thought he saw a kindness there.

 

[1] _“Sir! You must rest!”_

_[2] “Mr. Pinkman will be here in a moment.”_

_[3] “Rosa! Please bring us water!”_


	4. How Bright

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> previously titled _Ambulatory_
> 
> Walter gets better. Jesse gets quiet. There are chickens.

Life at Acension was so simple and good as to become surreal for Walter, after the terrible drama of his recent life. There were long evenings of singing crickets, good simple food, and long, deep sleep.

Jesse got up and left early each morning, returning at suppertime, dusty and tired. He didn’t talk much, and Walt didn’t pry. They each had their work to do, apparently, although Walt never asked and Jesse never offered what his daily work was. Walter decided he didn’t want to know.

To build strength he began by walking slowly around the house. In the cool of the morning he’d begin, stiff and halting. At first he had to rest part way, on the stone ledge by the pump. While he sat there, embarrassed by how hard he was breathing, the chickens approached and gathered in a semicircle near his feet. They were clearly expecting something.

“I suppose I must tip you, considering all the fine breakfasts you have provided.” He told them. They cocked their feathered heads. “But today I have nothing. Nada.”

Holding out his hands and turning them over, the birds crowded in excitedly, then made disgruntled noises as they realized naught was forthcoming.

Rosa appeared, took in the scene. She began to laugh, scolding the birds.

“ Váyanse, greedy hens! Señor White must rest!”

When she scattered the cracked corn for them they hurried in the direction of her gesture, scratching for the golden bits.

She looked concerned, but Walter waved at her in dismissal. She seemed to understand his pride and left him to his chicken-watching.

When he did arise, it was painful once more, and he moved stiffly. Shuffling awkwardly, Walt sighed in frustration. Speeding up, he huffed for breath as he rounded the north side of the house, in sight of the veranda. A cough rose up, refusing to be held down, and he stumbled onto the porch and clutched the bed. Bending over, he hacked in ragged, croaking gasps.

He wanted to cry. Looking about for Rosa, he buried his face in his hands and breathed in hitching gasps and coughs, willing the hot tears not to fall. They burned in his eyes. His heart ached.

Walt remembered the last time he felt this miserably ill, at home, when Skyler had spent the night on the floor with him. He longed for the tenderness of that moment now. He could remember how she smelled, the smell of the house, the bathroom rug. He thought thatthis was the most pathetic thing, his longing for that cheap rug, and her kind touch.

In time he could make it around the house several times. Rosa had equipped him with scratch so he could satisfy the chickens, although sometimes they chased him for more. She showed him where to look for eggs: near a fencepost, beside a big rock, in a tuft of grass. He enjoyed the discovery, and the heft of the warm egg in his hand. Something real and solid. Life, for him to eat, or that might grow into a fine bird.


	5. Dance in a Green Bay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> previously titled _The Spring_
> 
> Jesse and Walter take a hike.

One afternoon Jesse returned early. It was nicely cool weather, maybe a touch of fall in the air, and Walt was feeling good. He has already helped Rosa hang the wash and scrub the floor, then rested on the veranda.

“Hey, you’re home early.”

“Yeah, got some time on my hands. Thought I’d take care of some shit.”

Taciturn. The kid was becoming a real cowboy, speaking in grunts and nods. Sometimes he reminded Walter of Mike. Walt sighed and looked away, out at the horizon of scrub sage.

Rosa brought lunch and they occupied themselves with food. She was a goddess in the kitchen, Walt decided, slurping up the best green chile posole he’d ever eaten.

When they were through she waved at Walt, shaking her head. He was to stay with Pinkman, not help in the kitchen. Walter wanted to roll his eyes. He was getting well enough to be bored, and Jesse’s conversation skills were at an all time low.

“Let’s go for a walk. You up to it?”

Surprised, Walt nodded and got up, grabbing his walking stick and hat. He missed his old black hat, but this straw job was lighter and cooler in the mid-day sun.

They headed out the driveway and soon veered off onto a footpath, meandering amid the sage and cactus toward nothing in particular. Every now and then Jesse would glance over his shoulder to see if Walt was keeping up, and he’d nod, walking at an almost normal pace now. It felt good to be moving with purpose, not just aimless laps around the house. But where were they going?

After a while, a clump of boulders grew larger, and rocky outcroppings began to appear. There really was something to that mirage business, he thought. The desert seemed like an endless featureless plain, the repetition of forms numbing the mind, but then things would abruptly appear out of nowhere.

They entered a passage between two large rocks, and Walter began to feel a sense of unease. Jesse was speeding up, or he was flagging. The latter is more likely, he thought. I just need a rest. The trail was intriguing now, bending around rocks taller than they were, finally becoming a small canyon, twisting lower as the stones rose tall above them.

Cool air filled the shaded spaces and the light changed from blazing bright to a soft glow, reflected from golden rock.

The way opened up and he saw Pinkman kneeling at what must be a spring, a trickle of cool water flowing off the rocks into a tiny pool. Jesse brought his cupped hands to his mouth, drinking deeply, then splashed his face with water, shaking his wet fringe.

“Thirsty?” He stood aside, motioning for Walt to approach.

The spring was lined with moss, and tiny plants so green they seemed lit from within. Ribbons of watery light moved on the rock face. After the bleached light of the desert hike, the greens were oily, rich and radiant. Walter knelt stiffly, feeling the sting of small stones on his knees. He plunged his hands into the water, surprised by how icy it was, and drank deeply. Nothing had ever tasted so delicious.

A wave of exhaustion poured over him and he stepped back, sitting heavily on a boulder. He took in the tired feeling in his limbs, the warm stone against his back, the coolness in his throat. The sound of his breath, so alive.

It was eerily quiet in the enclosed space. Walt’s breath echoed in his ears, seemed too loud in the stillness of the grotto. He looked up from the mossy trickle and it’s flashing rainbow light and saw Pinkman standing before him, stock-still and silent. He was looking at Walt.

Something in that gaze gave Walter a strange chill. There was a strength, a sternness in the young man’s face he’d never before seen. Although he felt uneasy, Walter didn’t break the gaze.

In time Jesse spoke:

“Are you OK?”

Walt nodded. “Yes.” He waited.

“Good. Because I have some things to say to you.”

Jesse looked away; he turned toward the spring, then spun back, bringing his face closer.

“I should have let you die, old man.”

His voice lowered.

“I should kill you now.”

Walt was shaking, but he couldn’t look away from Jesse’s shadowed face. He didn’t hear the voice of murderous anger, but of quiet conviction. He waited.

He didn’t have to for long. Jesse stood up, scowling, and slapped him across the face with a wide swinging hand, so hard that his glasses flew off and he crashed backwards, half off the boulder, slumped against the rock wall, gasping.

Blood trickled from his lip where he’d bitten it. He looked up at Pinkman, waiting for another blow.

Jesse had stalked away a few paces, growling.

“God DAMN it, you rotten son of a bitch, you made me a murderer. First you blackmail me, told me how you NEEDED me to get the business started, but then did nothing but tell me I’m a worthless piece of shit, over and over again.

“Did it ever cross your mind what that might do to someone? Did you do that to your kid? No wonder he won’t have anything to do with you!”

Walter gasped involuntarily at the mention of Walt Jr. and opened his mouth to protest – but as he reconsidered. Pinkman cut him off.

“Shut up, you fucker. YOU SHUT UP, it’s MY turn!”

Jesse surged at him, grabbing his collar and slamming him back against the rock, spitting with rage into his face.

“You sick bastard. Why did you have to have me if you were going to run me down? Why did you even save my miserable life? Just to torture me?”

He let go of Walt with a shove and paced around, raking a hand through his stringy hair.

“Well. It worked.Let’s see, there’s Combo, dead. Tomas, dead. Mike, dead. Andrea, dead. Jane…”

His voice broke, just for a moment, then he snarled:

“And Gale, Jesus. Gale! Of all the stupid bitches that didn’t deserve killing, you had to make me murder that harmless faggot. I will never, ever be able to get his pleading face out of my head.”

He almost screamed, but then shifted to a low and ominous tone:

“But poisoning Brock. That was… I have no words. Fucking unbelievable. Which is why you almost got away with it.”

“Don’t you know I had plenty of my own reasons for killing Gus? Did you have to threaten something more precious than my own LIFE? I was totally willing to see Fring roast in hell after what he did to you, not to mention…” he trailed off, voice shaking.

Walt waited, panting, sucking his swollen lip, his heart pounding like a rabbit. Jesse paced up the gulley a few long strides then returned, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand.

“You miserable son of a bitch, WHY? Did you hate me so much? Why did you yank my chain, over and over and over? WHY??”

Walt looked up into Jesse’s ravaged face. He could see the scars now: many small ones, a big gash across on cheekbone, his crooked nose. He couldn’t read the intense glare, or tell if Jesse was daring him to speak or beseeching him for an answer.

“Jesse, I…”

Blue eyes pinned him like a bug.

“I.. I don’t know the words. I’m … I hate that I… I…”

Walter stuttered in frustration.

“What’s the matter? Where’s your gift for gab now, Heisenberg?” Jesse sneered. “Huh? You, who could convince anyone of anything, make it sound like not just a good idea, but necessary, unquestionably important. Cat got your tongue?”

Walter looked up into Jesse’s tearstained face. He truly had lost his clever words, and his emotions were every bit as riled up as his former protégé’s.

“You have every right to kill me, Jesse.” He sighed heavily. “Frankly, I don’t understand why you saved me.”

“Yeah, well. That’s what we DO, isn’t it? Save each other.”

Jesse stood turned half away, his head tilted, lank hair hiding his face.

“And maybe I’m just sick to death of killing.

“But I might reconsider, considering how you hired those goons to kill me. ‘Painlessly, like family’ wasn’t it?”

He spun around and threw his arms up to the heavens. Then he stepped closer, bent low and stared Walter in the eye. He spoke in a seething whisper:

“Do you know what they did to me, Walter White?” He spat the name. “Do you have any idea?”

Walter was frozen, trying not to tremble. He stared at Pinkman’s boots.

“No? Would you like me to tell you? Of course not, but I will. I want you to know.

“That sick fuck Todd beat me with a chain-filled hose. He broke my nose, my ribs. He let his buddies kick me, just for fun. I peed blood for weeks. I didn’t have much to give them, just the video confession that your brother-in-law squeezed out of me. I sure hope that nice Mrs. Schrader wasn’t home when they went to get it.“

Walt hung his head, miserably.

“Then they threw me in a pit, pissed on me and left me to rot for… a while. After that they chained me up in the lab and make me cook for them. By threatening Andrea and Brock, whom you introduced them to, if you recall.

“When the workday was done, they passed me around for sport.”

Walt looked up, shocked.

“That’s right, you miserable fuck, they raped me, every last one of them as far as I could tell. After a while they got sick of me screaming, so they poured liquor down my throat before stuffing a sock in my mouth. So they could keep going.”

Walter felt all the blood draining to his feet; he was trying not to fall over. A wave of nausea washed through him, and then he was crying.

“When I finally got a good kick to one of ‘em right in the nuts, they took turns putting out their cigarettes on my junk. I guess I’m lucky they didn’t cut it off.”

“So I ask you, partner, what the fuck? What the hell did I ever do to you, Walter fucking White, other than flunk your class?”

Jesse stood over his former teacher, panting, tears running down his face.

“What do you have to say now, Heisenberg?”

Walter was weeping now, face buried in his hands, sobbing as quietly as he could, which was not very.

“Nothing, I have nothing…” his words were garbled with tears and snot. He sobbed, waiting for some blow, for a shot to the head, for something, no, for nothing, praying for nothingness to claim him.


	6. The Dark is Right

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously titled _Scorpions_
> 
> Walter searches for the light

It grew quiet.

When Walt finally looked up, the scene swam blurry in his swollen eyes. Glasses, he thought, and groped in the gravel. He rose unsteadily to his feet, located his specs among the rocks at his feet, bent them into wearable shape and looked around.

It seemed that Pinkman was gone. The light had changed; the entire grotto now in shadow and noticeably cooler. Bending to the tiny spring, he rinsed his glasses of dust, then brought cool water to his cut lip, his swollen eyes. He startled a bit when he looked up, right in the eyes of a lizard. Invisible until it turned its tiny head, it crouched, no doubt expecting to be eaten. Walter sighed.

Standing now, he felt his jaw, the coolness of his hand on the rising bruise. He listened for any sound beyond the dripping of the spring but heard none. Looking up he saw the sky streaked with red. Night fell quickly now, and he had better head back to the casa if he were to find his way. Even then…

He retraced his steps as best he could, which was easy while among the big rocks, but when he emerged into the flat desert he soon found that everything looked the same. The gritty soil didn’t hold a boot print well, and he hadn’t seen a distinctive mark for some time.

Feeling a rising anxiety Walt schooled his thoughts to practical matters. If only he had paid more attention on the walk out, but he had been enjoying the movement of his limbs freely in the warm sun. It was quite cool now, and he wished he had more to wear.

He knew they had been heading mostly west, so he put the sunset behind him and moved with purpose. The luminous sand held the fading light well and he though he was making progress. But searching for a tiny light ahead, some glimmer of a lit window, began to lay tricks on the mind. He would imagine a pinpoint of light, only to lose sight of it again.

The stars grew in brightness and the sliver of new moon offered no useful light. As he tired, Walt began to despair that he would never find the tiny casa, it would be so easy to overshoot in one direction or the other, and he would never know.

But wouldn’t he cross the drive? If he went past the house on the north side, he would have to cross the two-track road, and he had not done that yet. When he did, he could follow it home.

So he kept veering left, and looked for Polaris to reassure him that he was heading east-north-east. But exhaustion overtook him, then grew worse. Despite the deepening cold, he had to rest. Sitting amid the sage scrub he fought a rising dizziness that buzzed in his ears, finally exhorted him to lie down and breathe slowly, drawing what warmth remained in the sand.

Full dark was well upon him as he shivered on the desert floor, but he was too weak to care when the scorpions came out and scuttled by.


	7. At Close of Day

The moon was down, and Rosa was about to go to bed when she saw that Jesse had returned alone. She wiped her hands on her apron and followed him.

“Señor Pinkman, ¿dónde estáel Señor White? What has happened? Is he in hospital?”

He dismissed her with a wave and climbed up to his loft bed. She persisted, shouting up to him:

“Señor! Por favor, where is Sr. White? You must tell me! What have you done?”

Rosa knew they had a past. She could tell by watching them together. She thought at first they were father and son, but had concluded that there was more to it than that, probably much more. She knew Jesse had been involved with the Business. Her nephew Marco had implied as much. Rosa knew well the wisdom of knowing as little as possible.

And she knew that although Jesse felt responsible for, and probably loved this man, he was filled with anger and hatred, and had no proper religious education to help him forgive.

She knew what she had to do, and struggled up the ladder to his loft, determined to drag him down.

They didn’t find him until dawn. He was unconscious. Once Rosa settled him in bed she brewed some strong tea. As she fussed over Walter, Jesse left for work without meeting her eye. She wouldn’t speak to him, and thought that he might fire her. She was furious, and he seemed so angry for her insistence. Rosa prayed they would settle into their routine again, and prayed in earnest for a true peace between them.

“Rosa, no puedo, I cannot take your bed. That is unthinkable. I am fine out here – I like it, the fresh air, the view…”

“Excuse me Señor White but as you say it is shit of a cow. You are very weak, and it grows too cold now. Your beard is iced by morning. Not good for sick man, so cold. You warm bed by fire. “

He could tell he was losing the argument. Well, at least it wouldn’t be long.


	8. On the Sad Height

In the month since their trip to the spring Walter had declined significantly. He knew it had nothing to do with his long night of the soul in the desert, but was merely the inevitable progress of his cancer. It had been beaten back twice, and was coming in for the kill now.

Walt knew enough biology to understand the changes in his body and mind. Pressure on his side, lack of appetite, frequent nausea, those were the symptomsofmetastasis to the liver.His staggering gait, the dimming vision on one side: his brain was filling with tumors. He shuddered, grateful that they hadn’t yet stolen his ability to think.

The worst was the bone pain, a throbbing, grinding shriek in his hip and low back, which made it increasingly agonizing to move or stand. He bore it as long as he could, until he could not help crying out in pain whenever he bent to sit, or tried to take a normal stride.

Rosa seemed to know what to do. She didn’t force food on him, but fed him sips of chicken broth as often as he would take them. _My friends, he th_ _ough grimly as he drank the golden broth, she’s cooked up my friends._ He smiled sadly, wishing he could walk around in the morning sun and see their hopeful birdy eyes watching him. To have the pleasure of satisfying them so easily, with just a handful of grain.

This made him think of his students, they way they almost never had been, bright faces upturned toward him, eager for the knowledge he would dispense. The way he once dreamt teaching would be. The real struggle had been finding a way through their apathy, that appalling disinterest his pupils had arrived with, and for the most, part departed with, having reluctantly supped and regurgitated enough to squeak by on the exams.

Since his night in the desert, Walter had no more fight in him, and Jesse seemed to be less angry. Sometimes they would even talk: only about the past, and usually about the good times, but they could have a conversation.

When he needed to talk about Skyler, Holly and Flynn, Walt went to Rosa. Although her English was limited, he knew enough basic words of Spanish, and she could read his face. She would listen in earnest, pat his hands and fix him something special, even though he could barely eat.

Rosa had always been tender and kind with him, but now they grew closer. She brought candles with saints on them, insisting on keeping one burning for him. She prayed, loudly and often, at his bedside. He tried to explain that this was unnecessary, that he was not religious, but she didn’t seem to understand. Over time he suspected she knew damn well what he was trying to convey but ignored him to her own satisfaction. And in time he just sighed and submitted to the blessings. What could it hurt?

Jesse was gone from early morning until quite late, and Walter found he missed him terribly. He felt bereft when he awoke to daylight and knew that Jesse wouldn’t be there. One day when Pinkman left and did not return for days, Walter worried; Jesse had still not shared with him anything about his work.

“When will he be home, Rosa? Señor Pinkman, where is he?”

She shushed him, gently urging him to relax. She held him as he sobbed.

Walter knew that his tumors were affecting his emotions as well as his balance; he cried often, for almost any memory. It was not the physical pain that brought tears, it was the sudden remembering of people he had known. Even people he never knew he had loved.


	9. Good Drugs

Rosa heard him moan and arrived with the bedpan. As humiliating as this was, it was easier than the agony that a walk to the outhouse had become. He submitted as gracefully as he could, but still could not help but cry out when he had to lift his hips.

She noted this and spoke to Jesse. Walter saw them conferring quietly on the veranda, out of earshot. He could tell she was pleading with him for something.

That evening Jesse came home late as usual, and sat at Walter’s bedside. He spoke quietly.

“I have something to help you with the pain.”

Walt looked at him. Jesse was tired and dirty. He looked beautiful in the firelight. This place in winter reminded him a bit of the cabin in New Hampshire, where he had imagined Jesse’s face in the firelight so many times. Now he was real, and Walter closed his eyes to hold back tears. He felt so grateful for that.

“Did you hear me, Walter? I have something, it’s good, pure. Let’s try a little, OK?”

Walter knew it was heroin. Hoped it was as good or better than morphine. He nodded.

“I’ll get addicted.” He smiled. Jesse smiled in return.

“Yeah, bitch. Be sure to sleep on your side.”

Walt opened his eyes at the dig, afraid for a moment, but Jesse’s expression was kind of bemused, and he realized that it was a terrible joke.

God, what they had lived through! Walt could never have imagined they would get to this place. He offered his thin arm to Jesse, who gently tied off the tourniquet and pulled back on the syringe, drawing a tiny swirl of blood into the liquid, then pushing slowly forward. He held the needle still, only half of the drug delivered, and watched Walter’s face.

“Can you feel it?”

A smooth chill moved up Walt’s arm, picking up speed as it spread into his body. The cool sensation was followed by a burst of sunny softness and warmth, of… comfort. He felt as if he were beginning to float off the bed – gravity had lessened, and with it the agony in his bones. He smiled, eyes drifting closed.

“I’d say so” Jesse whispered, withdrawing the syringe and compressing the injection site with his finger. He watched Walt melt into the bedclothes, head falling back, arms relaxing, his face softening. With out the grimace of pain, or the arch arrogance of before, he looked so different, Jesse mused.

“So beautiful, thank you.” Walter murmured, without opening his eyes. He stroked Jesse’s hand with the gentlest touch. Jesse thought he was talking about the drug.


	10. With Blinding Sight

These days Walter slept most of the time. He knew it was the brain tumors, and was grateful. When he was awake he needed a small amount of heroin just to lay quietly, but a good bit more in order to sit up or move.

He would dream. Of Skyler, sweet, young and so very pregnant when they bought their first, and only, house. Walt, Jr. as a darling toddler, adored by his father. Walter relived his fear and grief as Junior’s CP became more obvious and was diagnosed. And as his son grew, he never knew what to do with a kid that couldn’t throw a ball, who wasn’t science-bright. What would become of his son, Flynn? He was awake now, the feelings of the dream still clinging to him like fog. He wept.

He dreamt of Jesse, and often cried out for him.He seemed to be trying to save him. Rosa would come and sooth him, sometimes with an injection.

Even Jane visited Walt in his dreams. She appeared, in all her bright, pale beauty, studying him with a critical stare. “You’re not really his father, are you?”

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I wanted to help, but I was afraid I would lose him. I’m so sorry Jane, I’m sorry! I didn’t want you to die!”

“Shhh, easy there. You’re here with me, Walt.”

A hand rested on his hip as he awoke, curled in grief and pain. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” He sobbed.

Jesse gathered the injection things, then gently turned Walter, trying to get him to relax and unfurl his body without hurting him. The man was so frail now, merely bones and skin, light as a feather. But almost any movement caused him great pain.

His clawlike hand gripped Jesse’s arm and he yelled in pain as he turned over.

“Hey there, I’ll get you something, take it easy.”

“No, no more, not right now. Jesse, please no more. I’m sleeping it all away. Please, just talk to me. I need, I want…” He flailed, struggling to sit up.

“It’s OK, I’m here. I’m not going anywhere just now. Easy does it.”

Jesse nodded at Rosa who brought a cool cloth and some soothing tea.

He gently washed Walter’s face, throat and hands. Watched him squeeze his eyes with a sudden pain, then open them wide, looking right into his own.

“I’m here. Are you sure you don’t want a little bump? Just something to ease…”

“No,” firmly. “Not right now. I have to tell you things. Jesse.”

“I know Walter, it’s OK now. We’ve laid it all to rest, haven’t we?”

Jesse smoothed Walter’s strangely wiry hair back from his lined forehead. He looked ancient, with all the flesh melting away.

“Can I have my glasses?”

Jesse found them and placed them with care on the bridge of his nose, straightening them.

“Better?”

“Yes..” barely a whisper. “Thank you.” Walter sighed deeply, trying to hold back another wave of tears. Breathe.

Walt tried to raise his hand and Jesse caught it, held it gently, steering him back to the coverlet, to his lap. He didn’t let go.

When he looked into those clear blue eyes Walter couldn’t help but well up, but he didn’t let it swamp him. He managed a small almost-smile.

“You’re making me cry, old man.” Jesse smiled wanly in return, sniffling.

“Hey, I brought something to show you.”

Walter felt Jesse release his hand, felt the cool air replace the warm touch. Every small thing came with grief now, he noted.

What he handed Walter confused him for a moment. It was a photograph, a fresh one, of a house, newly painted, with an older woman and a young boy standing on the steps smiling. The boy had short black hair and was somehow familiar. The woman held his shoulders, a proud grandmother, likely.

“It’s Brock, and his Abuelita. I’ve built a house for them.”

Jesse picked another photo for him, and another. Walter saw Jesse in a builder’s apron, hammer hanging at his hip, sawing a board while Brock held one end. In another he saw the boy and his grandmother turning to smile at the camera, interrupted while painting the front door.

“You found him. Jesse, I am so happy for you. They look happy too. Good job, son.”

Jesse turned away momentarily and cleared his throat.

“Well, I felt I owed them something, after, after everything I put them through. I was amazed they would even talk to me. Brock doesn’t know, he doesn’t know it was my fault.”

This time Jesse buried his face in his hands, and Walt touched his knee with a skeletal hand.

“What you’ve done, it’s really good, Jess. It’s very… healing.”

He sobbed quietly for a moment, then looked up and took Walter’s hand and just held it. Looking at his mentor. His nemesis. That monster. His dying friend. There was a well inside of him, deep and overflowing.

They didn’t need to speak any more.

After a little while, Walter croaked, “I’ll have that hit now, I’m very, very tired.”

And Jesse took care of him.


	11. That Good Night

“Señor Pinkman, he not long now. He calls for you.”

Jesse came in with an armload of firewood. Rosa stoked the fire as he stacked the rest.

Sitting on the edge of the bed near the fire, he drew back the sheet to look at Walt. Emaciated, pale, yellowish in color and spotted with bruises, he looked dead already. He looked for the movement of ribs to see that yes, he was still breathing. He covered him again, tucking the coverlet around his hollow throat, and stroked the bony arm.

Jesse wondered if he should help him over the edge. It seemed like a kindness, but Walter had been insisting on less drugs lately, wanting to be awake as much as he could. He didn’t begrudge him that. How the man could keep on without eating, barely drinking a spoonfuls of water, was beyond his comprehension.

He saw a fluttering of Walter’s sunken eyes.

“Jesse.” He whispered with a weak smile.

“I’m here.” Jesse picked up Walt’s strangely cool hand.

“I’m so hot, it’s so hot in here, I’m burning up. Can you get these blankets off of me?”

Jesse looked at Rosa – it was pretty cold in the cabin, but she nodded with a sad frown. He took down the covers from Walter’s shoulders.

“All of it, dammit!” Walt tried to kick the blankets off and grimaced in pain.

With a start, Jesse realized this was familiar. When Aunt Jenny had died, she started by feeling too hot, grew agitated. Her feet turned purple, the bruises all running together, almost while he watched.

He nodded at Rosa. They both knew this was it.

Walter wanted to sit up. Rosa plumped his pillows as Jesse held his bony frame. Walter curled and arm around Jesse, weakly, and sighed. Jesse wrapped him in a full hug, feeling the coarseness of Walt’s hair on his cheek. He heard Walter whispering, barely a puff of air, so he leaned his ear closer, close enough for the dry cracked lips to brush his ear. Jesse pulled him closer for a moment, then, trying to steady his own breathing, laid him back gently onto the pillows. Walter closed his eyes and smiled, sinking into the softness.

Rosa mopped his brow, smoothing his hair. In a moment he started to shiver.

“I’m so cold,” he murmured. “Please, can you make a fire?” Jesse pulled up the coverlet and added a quilt. Walter started to cough and flail one arm, and Jesse freed the hand and held it firmly.

The cough became a wheeze, and then a gurgling breath followed by a long pause. Then another, dreadful, gurgling choked breath.

Jesse knew. The first time he saw this happen he was in a panic, calling the ambulance as Aunt Jen shook her head and croaked “NO!” and he didn’t know looking back if she was saying ‘no’ to death or the ambulance. Knowing her, probably both.

This time he knew to wait, to hold. Each breath came with more time in between than the last. Jesse found he was breathing, and holding his breath, along with Walt. Rosa was starting to cry, and pray. At first Jesse wanted her to shut up, but he also understood.

"Dios te salve María,Bendita túeres entre todaslas mujeres y Bendito esel fruto de tuvientre, Jesús. Santa María, Madrede Dios, esta connosotrosen la hora denuestra muerte[1]."

Jesse had his own silent offering:

 _Goodbye Walter_ _White, you miserable bastard, you brilliant,insane man. God damn it, I loved you too._

 

_[1] The Ave Maria: “Hail Mary, blessed art thou among women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, is with us in the hour of our death. "_


End file.
